Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then she heard a rumbling voice. “And see you, Edwin, the honor my wife pays me.” Bon stepped down from the dais, taking Maris’s hand and raising her to her full height. She modestly kept her eyes downcast until he said, “My lady, ’tis I who am honored at your presence. Come you and sup with me.”

  Maris barely restrained a nervous giggle. Honored at her presence, indeed. As if she’d found her own way to Breakston—wherever that was. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Bon was solicitous as he assisted her onto the bench next to his place. “I had half expected to drag you kicking and screaming down to sup with me,” he said, filling her goblet with thin wine. “Sensel had my orders. ’Tis glad I am that you chose to obey my wishes.” His steely blue stare fastened upon her.

  Maris looked at him from under her long lashes, refusing to be intimidated by his glare. “Aye, my lord, your wish that I join you—and not only for supper—was quite evident,” she said demurely. “Yet, I beg that any future travel arrangements you make for me will have more care to my comfort than these last.”

  Surprised, Bon laughed, turning every head in the hall back to the dais. He cocked his head to one side, taking a large gulp of wine. “And have you any other requests regarding your comfort, my lady?”

  One of the serfs approached with a wooden platter of food, followed by another with several bread trenchers. Bon, as gallantly as any courtier, chose bits of meat and potatoes for them, placing the choicest pieces of rabbit on her side of the trencher.

  Maris favored him with a brilliant smile, and its brightness seemed to be enough to stun even the sour Edwin, for he smiled in return.

  “My lord, how kind of you to ask after my comfort,” she said sweetly, dragging a crust of hard bread through the meat’s juices. “There are a few suggestions I might make, my lord. For I am to be your chatelaine, am I not? I should not wish your hall to seem lacking to any visitors.”

  Bon stilled, turning to look at her. She could almost see the suspicion darting through his mind, like a rabbit through its warren. “You are to be my chatelaine, and my wife,” he said darkly. “You seem to be much too well accustomed to this notion, my lady. What game do you play?”

  Maris wondered if perhaps she’d gone too far, but ’twas too late now and she must dodge his blow, thrusting with her own. “My lord,” she looked at him without wavering, “it appears that I have no choice in the matter. And in truth, as I must wed, methinks I’d sooner wed with a man whose desires for me are such that he should risk everything to whisk me away under my own father’s nose—rather than wed the sop‑eyed man chosen by my papa.”

  Bon looked surprised for a moment, and then a pleased smile settled over his features. “I do believe I have received my first compliment from the lady,” he said to Edwin.

  “Aye, my lord,” Maris agreed, “and now, may I ask a boon of you?”

  “Ask, my lady.”

  “May I be given charge of your steward and your cook?”

  The expression on his face would have been comical if she’d been in the mood to appreciate it. “My steward and my cook?”

  “Aye, my lord. The state of this hall is deplorable…and this food is not fit for the dogs that crowd about my feet.” Her words, for the first time that evening, were truly in earnest.

  Maris did not think she could survive until her father arrived to rescue her if she had to partake of what passed for food in this keep. “When was the last time these rushes were changed?” she asked, kicking at them under the table and landing her pointed toe in the ribs of a well‑fed hound. “And though my chamber is comfortable enough, it could use a good cleaning as well. It must be done before we are wed, my lord.”

  “We are to be wed on the morrow, my lady.”

  “On the morrow?” Maris managed to turn an expression of shock into one of joy before he could note the difference. “My lord, how you honor me!” Then, as if ashamed, she ducked her head.

  After a quick, sharp prick of her fingernail at the corner of her eye, Maris raised her face and fixed him with a wide‑eyed look pooled with manufactured tears. “But, Lord Bon, I have naught to wear…and surely you would not wish to dishonor me by inviting our guests to a hall in such a state. Why, and if we are to wed on the morrow, I cannot have the time to prepare a proper meal for your vassals and your men. I do not know what the stores hold, nor the talents of your cook.”

  He fixed her with a shrewd look and her heart stopped. Had she gone about it too obviously? “Methinks you are inventing excuses, my lady,” Bon said. “I shall not be dissuaded from wedding with you.”

  “Nay, my lord, I am most aware that we shall wed upon your word…yet, I implore you…please do you not dishonor me in this way.” She wiped another tear away. “I should at the least want the bedchamber prepared for our wedding night.” Maris had to work to make the words sound convincing, hardly believing that those words could issue from her mouth without nauseating her. She caught his gaze shyly from under her lashes, then turned away, lest he think her too bold.

  “Ah…aye, our wedding night,” he responded thoughtfully. “Mayhaps I shall make tonight our wedding night, my lady, and delay our nuptials as you ask.”

  Maris felt the blood drain from her face. “My lord, you would not dishonor me such!” she replied carefully, trying to sound only frightened and not as desperate as she was. “If we do not have the blooded sheets to display after the eve of our wedding, there will no doubt be questions as to whether we are truly wed. All will cast aspersion on our vows, and mayhaps I shall be taken from you and returned to my betrothed.”

  Bon did not reply immediately. She knew she was right, though he may be loath to admit it. Taking a bride by force was one thing, and being able to prove the validity of the wedding and its consummation was the crux of its success. It all came down to the one in possession of not only the bride, but her maidenhead as well.

  After what seemed like forever, Bon replied. His words were magnanimous, as if he were doing her a great favor. “Aye, my lady, as you argue so prettily, I shall grant your wishes and allow you to order my kitchen and steward. However, I will not delay the wedding more than one day hence, my lady, so mark me well and be efficient in your work. On the day after the morrow, we shall be wed.” His face leered close to hers, “And I shall anticipate that evening greatly.”

  Maris took a large swallow of wine. Folding her hands in her lap, she asked demurely, “May I then beg your leave, my lord, as I have much with which to occupy myself on the morrow. And, truly, I cannot partake of this meal.”

  “Aye, Lady Maris, hie yourself to your chamber. Sensel will guard your door this night so you may sleep in peace.”

  Head held high, Maris gathered her skirts and stepped over the bench, and off the dais. She made her way carefully through the hall, aware not only of the man dogging her footsteps, but also of the many pairs of eyes that followed her.

  There was one countenance that she recognized among the sea of faces. And upon that familiar face, she turned a look of such loathing and disgust that Dirick de Arlande could barely hold her gaze before returning to his goblet of ale.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maris found her chamber a welcome refuge after a meal at which she poised on tenterhooks. Agnes was waiting for her when Sensel swung the door open, gesturing for Maris to enter.

  As the great oaken door closed ominously behind her, Maris resisted the urge to sag weakly onto the bed. Instead, she stood in front of the fire that roared in the grate and tried to calm the tremors that shook her hands. Although she’d hid it well, her heart had been lodged in her throat during the entire meal, making it nigh impossible to choke down the smallest bits of food. That, at the least, she had not had to lie about.

  She seemed to have fooled Bon, however, and for that she was thankful.

  “Agnes, know you whither herbs are kept here at Breakston?” she asked, sinking onto a three‑legged stool next to the blazing fire.
She shivered.

  “Aye, my lady, there are some still in the kitchens. Methinks the midwife in the village may have some as well.”

  “I am in need of as much pennyroyal as you can locate,” Maris told her wearily. “Can you gather it without arousing suspicion?”

  “Aye. I shall say ’tis a tonic for myself.”

  “Good.” Maris stared into the fire for a long moment, watching as the orange flames curled about the logs. “We must not give Lord Bon or Sensel any reason to believe you will assist me. Come you, sit near the fire—here, Agnes, turn your face so that your cheek reddens. I shall make as if you have displeased me, and then you must leave quickly to fetch the pennyroyal. Be certain to show Sensel your reddened cheek so that he believes I have struck you.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Agnes agreed. She turned her unscarred cheek as directed, and as the warmth spread to her face, she watched in shock as Maris began to play‑act.

  “Stupid wench!” cried Maris suddenly, knocking over a tankard of ale. “Do you not have any more sense than a dog?”

  With a loud shriek, she dropped a piece of wood near the fire. Just as the door swung open, Maris slapped her hands smartly together, creating the same sound as hand meeting cheek, and in a swift movement, grabbed Agnes’s arm and jerked her away from the fire. “Go you and do not come back until you have learned not to be so clumsy!”

  Giving the startled maid a shove toward Sensel, who glowered at the door, she added, “I must have my tonic immediately!”

  Then Maris whirled angrily on Sensel, for he had no business bursting into her chamber unannounced. “How dare you enter my chamber without my leave?” She planted her hands on her hips and stared up at him.

  By this time, the altercation had caught the attention of the residents of the hall. Great clomping footsteps hurried up the stairs, and Bon, followed by several other men-at-arms, including Dirick de Arlande, crowded into the doorway of the chamber to see the interesting sight.

  Apparently unaware of the witnesses behind him, Sensel’s face darkened and he leaned threateningly toward Maris. “My lord has commanded that I guard you day and night, my lady, and I answer only to my lord Bon.”

  “You may guard my door all you like, Sensel,” Maris continued imperiously, “but you will not enter unless you are bid.”

  Then, as if she had just caught sight of her intended husband, who stood watching the scene, she swept into a curtsey. “My lord, I am sorry if I interrupted your meal. ’Tis only that clumsy girl pulled on my hair and overturned a goblet of ale. It nearly stained my gown. I’d as lief take a switch to her if she does not attain some grace!”

  “If Agnes does not please you, my lady, I shall find another maid to serve you,” Bon told her, taking her hand to his lips. He stared at her as if bewitched, and Maris knew she must take advantage of her success.

  Maris paused as if to think on his suggestion. “Nay, my lord, as I have already begun her training. I should not wish to start again. I shall try her for a time. And if she does not improve, she will feel the back of my hand until she does.”

  Thus assured that his lady was satisfied, Bon turned on Sensel, his face darkening. “Never did I bid you leave to enter my lady’s chamber. You are dismissed. You shall take the night watch at the south tower until you are bid otherwise.” His gaze scanned the gawking group of men and rested on Dirick. “You, sir, will replace Sensel. And know that if you should displease my lady, you will find yourself in a less desirable duty.”

  Dirick nodded smartly. “Aye, my lord.” His eyes flickered to Maris, whose heart sank at the man’s new appointment. He was the last man she would want guarding her door, for she suspected he would be more efficient than any of the other slothful ones. Likely, Bon had the same opinion of his men, and that was why he’d selected Sir Dirick.

  Before she could react, the chamber door slammed shut, leaving her in the chamber with Bon. He turned to her. “At last, my lady, we are alone.”

  Not for long, I pray. She eyed him with trepidation. “Aye, my lord, that we are. And what will be your pleasure? Wine, my lord?”

  “Bon. I wish for you to call me Bon when we are private.” He was still looking at her as if besotted.

  She used that opportunity to pour him a goblet of warm wine, wishing that she had a store of herbs in her chamber. “Did you have ought you wished to speak with me on, my lord—Bon?”

  His dark eyes glinted dangerously as he looked at her in the dim light. “Nay, my dear Maris. ’Tis only your company that I wished.”

  His heavy gaze did not waver from her, and Maris was beginning to feel discomfited. She carefully took a seat on the three‑legged stool closest to the fire, watching him warily.

  “My lord,” she began, wanting to keep the conversation going so that his thoughts would settle on the fact that she was alone with him and helpless, “it would please me greatly to have use of the large chamber betwixt this and the garderobe. I will need such a chamber for a solar, where I and my women might work.”

  Bon’s eyes, which had drifted to her bosom, snapped back to her face. “Your women?”

  “Aye, my lord. How else shall I keep you in tunics, and tapestries on the walls?” She looked guilelessly at him. “You are in need of a new tunic for our wedding…and do you not think me shallow, my lo—Bon, yet I should like other than this to wear for that day.” She gestured to the gown that fit rather too snugly through the bosom, and whose sleeves were the merest too long to be considered a perfect fit.

  His dark eyes gleamed. “And for such a boon as that, my love, I wish a token of your affection in return. Come hither, dearling.” He gestured to the floor near where he sat.

  Maris hesitated, then, gathering her skirts, sank into a kneel next to his stool. Keeping her head lowered, for now she was truly fearful for her virtue, she made a great play of arranging her gown about her ankles. Bon reached down and grasped one of her hands, pulling it firmly to his lips. She concealed a shudder as moist lips smoothed over the back of her hand, then over the tender, inner side of her wrist. His tongue flicked out, like that of a snake, tracing the pale blue vein beneath her skin and she nearly jumped at the sensation. It was not pleasant in the least, reminding her of the way one of the hounds licked her hand when she had liniment on her fingers.

  “My lord,” she murmured, trying to pull away. His grip tightened and he chuckled quietly. The lips continued to trail along her wrist, his fingers sliding her sleeve back, as he pressed moist kisses on the inside of her elbow.

  “Bon, please,” she looked up at him. “Please do not…tempt me so.” Maris swallowed the clot of fear in her throat and managed a tremulous smile. “’Tis only one more day and we shall be truly wed.”

  “Aye, ’tis one more day…an’ two more nights,” Bon agreed, his voice rough. His eyes glittered darkly, and she felt that same well of fear that she had when Victor slammed her against the tree. “I would have a taste of what it is I’ll wed, Maris.”

  His fingers like iron bands, Bon pulled her to the front of his stool. Placing a hand under each elbow, he lifted her so that she was between the crux of his legs and half risen on her knees. One hand reached to hold the back of her head, his thick fingers sinking into the intricate coils of hair, as his bearded face leaned toward hers, blocking out the light from the candle behind him.

  The hair on his face was rough over her smooth skin, and his lips were damp and sloppy. She tried in vain to twist her head away, but Bon’s strength prevailed, and he succeeded in lifting her onto his lap even as his mouth smothered hers. Heavy, rough breathing rasped into her mouth as his kiss coaxed and demanded in turn.

  Maris curled her fingers into his tunic to keep from scratching his face. Then she tried to push him away, and, at last, was able to free her mouth from his. His arms were around her waist, pinning her onto his lap, and, gasping for air, he looked down at her own heaving chest.

  “Do not be affrighted, my love,” he said in what he must have thought was
a seductive voice. “I’ll not hurt you.”

  Just then, there was a loud knocking at the chamber door. Maris leapt to her feet, but was jerked back onto a solid lap. “Nay, sweeting. I’ll not be interrupted.”

  “But, my lord, ’tis no doubt Agnes with my tonic.”

  “Your tonic can wait,” he growled, seeking her lips once more.

  With a cry, she managed to slide her face from his mouth, gaining a good scrape of beard across her cheek. “Nay, please my lord, if we do not answer the door, there will be much talk of what is happening herein, and then we shall be in quite a fix if there is any question as to our marriage.”

  The knocking became louder, sounding almost as desperate as she felt.

  Bon’s hand slipped down the front of her bodice, closing around her breast through the thin chemise under her bliaut. The other hand plucked at the lacings that held her bodice together.

  Suddenly, the door swung open. Bon’s head snapped up from Maris’s bosom.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady…did you not bid me entrance?” Dirick had a surprised look on his face, but he strode boldly into the chamber. “It looks as if the fire needs to be stoked.”

  “My fire does not need to be stoked,” Bon said meaningfully to Maris, his palm sliding down her back, all the way to the curve of her rump.

  She squirmed in his lap, her face hot and her breathing unsteady. What was Sir Dirick doing? Then she saw Agnes hovering in the doorway. She pulled firmly from Bon’s hands. “There you are, you lazy fool!” she exclaimed. “Have you brought my tonic?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Dirick jolt in surprise.

  “A‑aye, my lady,” Agnes was obviously so accustomed to being spoken to in that manner that it was not difficult for her to feign fear. “A tea of pennyroyal and chamomile, to help you sleep, my lady…and peppermint leaves to chase the ache from your head.”